


the bride al ghul

by freakedelic



Category: DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Assassin Death Cult Has Weird Traditions, Bridal Ceremonies, Cannibalism, Crossdressing, Drowning, Drugging, Forced Feminization, Gore, Grooming, Improper Use of Chess Pieces, Lots of pretty things, M/M, Marriage, Necrophilia, Ra's is pretty deranged in this, Resurrection, Ritual Murder, Self Harm, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide, The Slitting of Wrists, autocannibalism, boywife tim, dead robin: don't eat (don't be ra's), executions, wedding porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21810652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: - til death do us part, again and again.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Comments: 29
Kudos: 201





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renowo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renowo/gifts).



> this is a late christmas present for ren!!! ren ily idr how long we've been friends at this point but it's been at least a year and a half and <33333 pls take this nasty nasty ra'stim with a side of timothy drake's roasted spleen as a token of my affection.
> 
> sometimes i write a fic to remind people how depraved i am. this is one of them.
> 
> shoutout to @notcutetweet on twitter for translating the arabic. "arossa" is arabic for "bride", or "doll", and it's also a pet name.

Tim isn’t quite sure when he realized that Ra’s was interested in him as more than an enemy—and then when he realized that Ra’s wanted him as more than an ally. Tim is sharp, observant, taking in every movement and ever twitch of the side of Ra’s’s mouth that signifies one of his strange, fond smiles. He categorized them, put them away neatly on the shelf, and missed the obvious until it was right in front of his face.

Perhaps it was when he started to realize how Ra’s treated people who weren’t him—the utter lack of humor in his eyes, the fury that came so much more quickly. How distant he was even with his own daughter, and how often his hands strayed to Tim’s shoulders, his waist, his wrists.

Today, Ra’s’s thumb rubs against his wrist as he clicks his tongue. “Are you so dissatisfied with our arrangement, Detective?”

Tim stares past him. He doesn’t look at the scratches up and down his arm, made by the bedsprings he had pried out of the mattress, the bruises that had come from his own fists.

Tim hasn’t cried. It hasn’t been so long that he’s given up hope, yet. He has to find some way to explain to Ra’s that this isn’t rebellion—it’s just a habit, something he does when under stress.

Ra’s’s hand rubs at his wrist, gently. He seems genuinely concerned. Ra’s may even be genuinely concerned—but the man is just as genuinely angry, just as genuinely sadistic. _Narcissist_ , Tim’s mind notes, _abuser_.

“It’s not like that,” Tim tries to explain. He only recently got to wear any clothes at all—here he’s almost naked, except for one of Ra’s’s long, absurd capes. It still smells like him, some mixture of what Tim is sure is obscenely expensive cologne and the man’s own natural scent. “It’s just . . . something I do.”

Dick should be the one comforting him right now, worry. If he weren’t so interested in Damian. Maybe they’re better off without him—

“This is an unacceptable outcome,” Ra’s murmurs. Tim tenses a little at the anger in his voice. “Did Wayne not teach you better?”

“Bruce was busy with other things.” Tim shouldn’t be telling him the truth like this. It simply . . . slips out.

“Hmm. There will be people watching you closely, Detective. This is not something I will tolerate. I do not intend for any harm to come to you.”

_None that you don’t inflict yourself_ , Tim thinks spitefully.

He doesn’t say it. It’s the kind of thing that Ra’s would slap him for, and Tim already feels bad enough.

“I will have it bandaged,” Ra’s continues, “but first—” he stands up, reaching into his robes. Then, to Tim’s wide-eyed shock, he drops to one knee. Ra’s’s strange half smile comes, then. The something he pulls out of his robe is a small case, and it reminds Tim of—

Oh, god, no.

“Timothy Drake,” Ra’s murmurs, “you will marry me.” The diamond must cost thousands of dollars. It gleams large on the platinum band, and it feels like a death toll. Tim knew it was only a matter of time before Ra’s revealed his true intentions, and now that it’s here he almost feels paralyzed.

“Ra’s—”

The man’s eyes are Lazarus-green as they dare Tim not to play his game.

“Yes,” Tim whispers.

He shuts his eyes as Ra’s slips the ring onto his finger. It goes on so easily, obviously fitted to his own hand. He opens his eyes to Ra’s’s pleased face.

“The wedding will commence soon. You will be my bride, Timothy Drake.”

Tim feels sick.

“And then?” he can’t help but ask.

“And then I shall have you as all husbands have their wives.”

* * *

Tim isn’t given the date. He’s left to stew in his own fear, and he hopes that Ra’s can’t see the anxiety on him. The next time he tries to hit himself, he has three ninja strapping him into the bed and Ra’s comes in to stroke his hair and kiss his forehead and tell him to stop hurting himself.

It was, at the very least, more than Bruce ever did.

* * *

“The Demon’s Head won’t be seeing you today,” the ninja explains. His eyes are fixed at his feet. Tim wants to tell him to have some dignity, something, but . . . then Ra’s would punish him for even the littlest bit of disobedience, even at Tim’s request. “The Demon’s Head requests that tradition be followed.”

“What tradition?”

“Tradition for your American marriage ceremony, my Lord.”

Tim feels his stomach sink. It’s alright, he was prepared for this—

He isn’t. He isn’t prepared for this. Not mentally, not emotionally. But he has to be, or Ra’s will break him. _Someone will come for me. I will escape this place_. Promises he must keep.

Two more ninja trickle in after him. “The Demon’s Head ordered you prepared for tonight’s ceremony.”

Tim doesn’t have a choice. He lets go of Ra’s’s cape somewhat unwillingly—it’s been his only dress for what feels like weeks. Or months. What he doesn’t mind is how they take out the nipple piercings. They’re probably going to put more in, but for now, Tim is glad the gold rings aren’t poking through his clothing every time he moves. They lead him to the large bath in his room, one carrying oils and another carrying towels, silently starting the warm water.

Tim can’t even take comfort in the bath. He knows what’s going to happen, now, and the fear is starting to fill him up. They aren’t there to see it, to take advantage of it, simply to serve. There’s not even a chance of conversation, or of connection, and for half a second Tim almost, almost wishes that Ra’s were here. But he would be a poor man to bounce one’s worries off of.

And in the end, all Tim is left with as one of the servants begins to massage shampoo into his scalp is the very normal, perfectly reasonable response:

He doesn’t want to be raped.

* * *

Tim doesn’t get clothes right away. He wonders when he’d lost his dignity, but for so long nakedness had been his constant companion. Instead, warm wax dribbles on his feet, on his legs, spread out on a marble table. It’s cold against him. Tim doesn’t make a sound as they wax his legs, his crotch, his brows—all no doubt to Ra’s’s exact specifications. This isn’t preparation for the wedding, this is preparation for the rape.

Tim stares at the ceiling and wonders what he did to deserve this.

* * *

Tim remembers being measured for all the clothes that Ra’s wanted to put on him before he got angry and stripped him of them. This is a little like that, people fussing over him, standing naked in the middle of a room. His crotch and legs ache from the wax. Someone is brushing his hair roughly. It’s grown out in the months he’s been here to frame a pale, gaunt face, and now hangs around his shoulders. Tim hates it, but Ra’s likes it, so it stays.

The first things that go onto him are the lacy stockings. His feet slip into them easily, and they feel strange going up smooth legs to cinch at his thighs. There’s too much _lace_ in what the servants bring in, and he’s wondering how they keep it all straight. They do, though, so Tim is forced to step into a long skirt. Lace trims the ends, and it hugs his hips in a way that’s supposed to be flattering but all he can feel is self-conscious—almost more so than when he was naked. Whatever it’s lined with, it feels soft and slick, nothing like the dry lace that weaves its way down his hips and splays across the marble floor of his room.

A servant reaches over Tim’s head, raising Tim’s wrists to slip it into something that feels like a shirt. This time the lace lays against him, climbing up his thin back and arching over his shoulders. Loose, gauzy material falls to his waist. That can’t be all he’s going to wear, right?

A belt made of stiff fabric and lace is pushed around his waist. The servant goes around to tie it off, and Tim gasps as it pulls his stomach tight. The lace hangs just a little over it, still tucked in, and Tim realizes as it’s yanked as tight as it will go that his whole chest is exposed.

Someone reaches in between the gauze to slip silver rings into the piercings on his nipples, and Tim has the hardest time not fighting that. Fighting, he reminds himself, does nobody any good now.

Something is braided into his hair, the dark locks pulled across his shoulder. More lace is placed in front of his eyes—a veil. Tim shakes his head, but it isn’t dislodged. His hands are grabbed once again to force long, laced gloves up to his elbows, and Tim can see the delicate hand beading on them as he looks down.

There is a chain strung between his nipples, and a collar affixed to his neck as Tim’s face burns. Someone pushes up his dress and Tim has the intense realization that he’s wearing nothing at all under it, but they’re simply slipping high-heeled shoes onto him. Tim sways like a drunkard.

Now he almost feels for Steph. The thought of her aches, so he pushes it away.

_I_ will _see her again_ , he promises himself.

Tim’s gently led on swaying legs, doing his best to walk on the god knows how high heels. It almost takes up so much of his attention that he can’t be embarrassed, but instead he’s terribly aware of how the collar graces his throat and the chain tapping against his chest with every step.

They lead him over to the vanity mirror. Tim notices how red his face is in pale skin, how ghostly he looks in all white. He could almost be an apparition. Tim wishes he could just disappear as they apply the rouge to his cheeks and the gloss to his lips. His eyelids are pulled down so someone can line them with black ink. Does Ra’s know that Tim isn’t a woman? He can’t imagine going out like this.

He memorizes the layout as they leave the room, but guards line the halls, every one standing at attention as he passes by. There’s no room for escape here.

Fear pools in his gut.

They can all see him. Prettied up in a woman’s dress, face reddened with the humiliation of it. Tim tries to pretend that they can’t see him. _They’re just ninja_ , he tells himself, but that isn’t helpful. He refuses to think of them as Ra’s thinks of them. The only thing that helps is the white gauze that he’s hidden behind. Tim’s delicately laced arms curl in front of himself, as if trying to protect his body from their gaze. The very tips of his fingers are the only bits exposed, gripping his arms.

Tim is . . . getting married.

He doesn’t think this is a legal or binding marriage. His mind lists off facts dispassionately. It would only be binding with parental consent, in a few different states. This isn’t how he imagined his wedding day. This isn’t how he’d imagined losing his virginity.

This isn’t how he wanted any of it. His face burns as he stares down. The dress feels strange, his body unused to how tightly it clings to him. There’s only so much he can move with how tight the dress is.

Tim’s stomach sinks when they reach the double wooden doors that clearly signify something important. This part of the complex, he notes, is older than the other parts. Maybe it has some importance to Ra’s. Tim’s profiled him before, considered what might be important to a man like him. It seems hard to imagine what living for a hundred hundred years would do to a man.

The doors creak open, and there is Ra’s.

Tim’s never actually seen him in a suit before. Usually he wears robes, like _kurta_. Now, Ra’s wears a full on suit, dark black with a green tie, hair neatly combed. He looks like a man who truly is getting married. What was it that the servant had said? In the American tradition. Even his cape has been shed.

The servants seem to leave him. There’s an aisle, a green carpet with flowers scattered over it that leads to a lavish altar. Tim feels suddenly all alone, in front of a too-large altar. Traditionally, someone would be giving him away. But he supposes that Ra’s doesn’t care for that particular tradition.

The first step is tottering on his high heels. Tim actually has to put his laced arms up to steady himself, shivering as air brushes across his nipples. The chains are cold, and he hopes his nipples aren’t already hard. His feet are jammed into the small white tips, the crisscrossed beading of the shoes digging into his nearly bare feet. The lace on the insides of his thighs irritates him, makes him ache. Every step feels like another death toll.

Tim collapses into Ra’s’s arms at the end of the long hall, trying not to fall into him—but he almost trips over the train of the wedding dress that drags behind him, toppling into strong, firm hands.

“You are ravishing, my bride,” he murmurs. Tim’s face flushes, from anger or embarrassment, he can’t tell.

He bites his tongue.

Ra’s tilts Tim’s head towards the priest, putting him back upright on those damned heels. He sways, but doesn’t fall again. Tim stares at the man—he’s dressed in perfect Catholic garb, and he looks utterly terrified. Guilt shivers down Tim’s spine. He tries to communicate with him through his eyes. _I don’t want to be here either. I don’t want this. I’m sorry._

Ra’s pulls Tim’s head back to him, fingers looping in the collar. “Look at me.” The voice is low and purred. Tim raises his eyes to stare into the vibrant Lazarus-green ones, the color of death and resurrection. He won’t flinch away from this. Tim won’t show that weakness.

The ceremony begins.

Ra’s must have already explained to the priest what would happen if this wedding ceremony didn’t go well. Tim’s stomach flip flops, but not in the good way. Not in the kind of way that it should on a wedding day. Tim can’t imagine what Ra’s’s rage will be if this does not go well. The Lazarus rage runs deep and cruel in his veins.

He addresses Ra’s. “Do you, Ra’s al Ghul, swear to take this—” he sweats a little here “—woman as your, ah, wife, and promise to be true to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, and to love and honor her all the days of your life?”

Ra’s isn’t looking at the priest. He stares into Tim’s face, into his eyes, as if he could eat him alive. The veil doesn’t feel like adequate protection, now. “I do,” he murmurs, one of his larger hands clasping Tim’s. The other hand reaches to the side, where a ninja with a bowed head brings forth the rings. It’s slipped carefully onto Tim’s fingers. Then the other ring is pressed into his palm.

The priest, shuddering and sweaty, addresses Tim. “Do you, Timothy Drake, swear to take this man as your husband, and promise to be true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, and to love and honor him all the days of your life?”

Tim tastes vomit on his tongue. He wants to close his eyes, but Ra’s’s hand is clamped so hard around his wrist that he is sure it will bruise purple to match the white of his lace gloves.

“I do,” he whispers, staring at the ground, barely audible.

Ra’s’s thumb rubs back and forth over the bruise, gentle and possessive.

Tim slowly slips the ring onto Ra’s’s finger. It’s much larger than the one that encircles his own—they must be custom made. Of course they are. Everything is custom made.

“You may . . . kiss the bride,” the priest mumbles. Tim’s eyes flick up to feel the veil being pushed from his face. Ra’s’s eyes are dark in with a feeling that Tim has rarely seen from him; with more sickness, he recognizes it as _want_.

Tim’s eyes go wide and he makes a small _mmph!_ noise as Ra’s pulls him forward by the back of his head, fingers digging into his braided hair, veil discarded. There is no protection at all from that gaze. Ra’s tastes of wine and spice and smells of feverish death. Ra’s’s tongue digs deep between his lips, teeth worrying at the bottom one, hot and wet. Tim shudders, trying not to struggle. Ra’s pulls him closer, a hand beneath his ass and grabbing at his thigh over the mermaid dress, Tim panting into Ra’s’s mouth. His cries are drunk up by the man pressed against him.

He’s hard.

Tim feels his stomach fall through the floor. He shuts his eyes, tight. Saliva is sticky against his cheek as Ra’s trails kisses across his jaw, murmuring pleased sounds against the skin. He pauses only to take a breath.

“You are beautiful, Timothy. My bride.” His eyes are alight with flame, but the hand is slipping from Tim’s thigh. He gives thanks for it, even if he can still feel Ra’s’s erection against him. Tim _will_ endure this. He _will_ make it through this.

This is not the end of the world.

This is just rape.

The thing that tips him off that something isn’t right is the slick sound of something metal. Tim tries to catalogue his dress in his mind—he’s not wearing metal, not except for the silver on his nipples, so that must be on Ra’s—

“Shh,” Ra’s murmurs. Something hits Tim in the stomach. The priest screams. Tim loses his balance, but Ra’s catches him, pulling his head close to Ra’s’s black clad shoulder. Tim’s voice chokes something soundless out.

“We have our own traditions, too,” Ra’s murmurs in his ear. Tim is beginning to feel it, long and curved, lodged inside him. Ra’s is still hard. The knife is cold in his guts.

Then Ra’s yanks it, drawing a hard line across Tim’s corset, cutting easily through it—cutting into Tim’s stomach and intestines. Warm blood begins to stain the dress, Tim making a gasping, choked noise—

“Ra’s—”

“Shh,” he coos. The knife is pulled out with a spurt of hot blood. Tim sucks in air. He convulses against Ra’s’s body, blood spilling down his chin. A lacy hand goes to his gut to try to stifle the blood, or at least keep the things inside him from falling out.

“What’s—happening—I thought—”

Ra’s’s muscled arm sweeps Tim off his feet, gasping as he’s pressed against him. The knife is nowhere to be seen. Tim looks down to see his intestines peeking through cut muscle, trying to twitch their way out of the wedding dress. His hand presses against it. Tim feels dizzy. The only solid thing is Ra’s. His lacy gloves are now drenched in crimson, the beads spinning in the light. He can’t breathe without agony shooting through him. Tim groans, clawing at Ra’s—

Tim’s head whips around as he watches himself be carried through another doorway, in hard white marble. He mumbles something to himself. Tim stares down at the gaping wound again, deep and cruel.

“Ra’s—Ra’s—” he paws at the man’s shoulders “—Ra’s, I’m going to die, the cut is too deep, _Ra’s_ —”

Tim falls back onto a bed. He spits blood, agony spilling through him. Blood stains the sheets beneath him as his hands grab onto it for sheer purchase. Ra’s towers over him. The door snaps closed. Shadows gather around them, dangerous.

Even Ra’s’s weight sinking the bed makes him want to scream in pain. His guts twitch inside him, aching. The smell is almost starting to get to him, too, foul and bloody. Ra’s looms above, straddling Tim’s legs.

“Oh, my bride,” he murmurs, “you _will_ die.”

Tim pales under the makeup. He will die, he is going to die, but Ra’s—

Ra’s isn’t finished with him.

Tim shakes his head. “No, no no no, you can’t, Ra’s—please—don’t—”

“You are my wife now, bride. In all but practice.” Ra’s’s arm is trailing up Tim’s lace stocking, under the heavy skirt.

Ra’s is still going to rape him.

Tim stares up at the ceiling, still white marble, light dancing off of it. “Ra’s, please, not the pit—”

“You will become as I am,” Ra’s purrs. His hand is on Tim’s thigh. Tim stares up, trying to ignore the agony. It hurts.

The only thing that’s going to make it hurt less, he knows, is death. His hand is tacky with blood. It’s ruined the no doubt expensive wedding dress—

Tim gasps with pain as the dress is torn. It’s ripped up the side, Ra’s methodically tearing through the fabric. Tim can’t even kick, it hurts too much. Stars dance in front of face. All he can taste is blood.

“I don’t want to,” he whispers.

He can’t escape this.

Tim can’t lose his mind like Ra’s does, lose it in the way he does. That would make him—changed. Irrevocably. Unable to come back.

“That,” Ra’s says, all teeth, “is a shame.”

Tim shakes his head. The agony is making him hazy. He has to survive this—

No. He won’t survive this. Tim’s body might come out intact, but his mind will not. Who he _is_ will not. He’s seen enough of Ra’s’s pit madness to know that.

“Please,” Tim mumbles, and he’s not sure what for. Ra’s is pushing his dress up, further, the lace splaying around him on the bed. His legs are being spread. Ra’s is going to fuck him.

Tim shuts his eyes, and all he sees is red.

Something slick is on Ra’s’s fingers as they trail up his thighs. Tim shivers. Ra’s’s hands clench down on him hard enough to bruise. He can feel his insides twitching under his hand.

His thighs are pushed back. Tim wants to cry. He’s never felt as young as he has now, as vulnerable and childish. His hands shudder in the sheets, panting breaths speckled with blood. He should be nauseous, but he thinks his stomach must be cut open.

“You are wonderful,” Ra’s murmurs. “I will be the first to have you, as your husband.” Tim can feel the ring on his hand cold against his skin.

“Please,” Tim whispers.

This should end, soon. This should end. That’s starting to become all he cares about, the end of it, and it hasn’t even begun.

Wet fingers spread his cheeks. Tim tries not to gasp at the cold, tries not to feel sick. Ra’s’s other hand goes higher, against Tim’s hip, high to the wound—

“No,” Tim murmurs, hand clenching down. Ra’s’s fingers encircle his, soaking in blood. It’s comforting, having something to hold onto like that. Tim shoves the thought out of his mind as soon as it comes.

Cold fingers circle his hole. Tim flinches, shivering. He shakes his head, but it doesn’t make it stop. It all hurts. Blood is hot pooling underneath him, ruining the dress and the sheets. He tries not to move, no matter how much he wants to flinch away from Ra’s, because that simply makes the pain worse.

A slick finger slips inside him. Tim gasps. It feels wrong, not unpleasant, but _wrong_ —invasive, unnatural. Ra’s’s thumb rubs circles on top of Tim’s hand.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Timothy,” Ra’s purrs. Tim wishes he would shut up. He doesn’t think he can take the comforting tones along with the horrible thing that’s happening to him.

Another bloody breath. And then another. The dying is taking so long. Tim knows that gut are supposed to be agonizing, supposed to make one suffer for a long time. Ra’s couldn’t have just slit his throat?

Cruelty.

A second finger joins it, going deep, probing. Tim’s dress is press further upwards, soaking in more crimson, the layers piling on top of one another. Ra’s brushes something that makes Tim gasp, and fingers play at it.

“Please—” Tim begs— “No.”

A pause.

“Very well, Detective.” Ra’s’s voice is not the near kind tones it was earlier. “I will only focus on myself, tonight.”

_I’m dying!_ Tim wants to scream at him.

Instead he chokes on his own blood.

Ra’s wipes it away from his chin with the sleeve of his suit, eyes cool. Tim stares up at the cold marble. He can imagine the hot blood he feels leaking from him staining it. It would be a blessed respite from the heat to lay on the floor.

Fingers scissor him open, aching at his rim, too wide. Ra’s’s fingers are pulling himself out. Tim stares up at the ceiling. He’s seen the man’s cock before, Ra’s has been naked in front of him, but not . . . hard. Not with the intention of fucking him.

Tim had seen enough, however, that he knows that this is going to hurt.

The sticky sounds of lubricant prevail as Ra’s’s fingers worry at his rim, prying him wider and letting cold air inside. Tim’s body screams at him, more blood bubbling up. He swallows it back down. The agony twitches through him with every movement, every push of Ra’s’s hands against his thighs.

The head of the man’s cock presses against him. Tim is panting, trying to suck in as much air as he can, but it seems almost impossible. Tears puddle in his eyes from the sheer pain of it. It’s starting to take over, scream in every corner of his mind.

The length is agonizing. Ra’s is thick. Every inch is pushed in slowly, only possible because of the lube. He keeps thinking that surely this will be all of it, that this will be the end, but it simply keeps going.

“Relax, bride,” Ra’s murmurs. “It will hurt you less.”

Tim groans in agonized response. He tries to relax, he _does_ , but the pain is too much for him.

Tim finally feels Ra’s’s balls flush against him. Ra’s makes a pleased groan, grinding into Tim’s thighs. Tim gasps in pain as it aggravates his fatal wound.

“You are exquisite, my Timothy.”

Tim’s eyes roll back in agony as the cant of Ra’s’s hips begins in earnest. Every movement jostles his wounds, makes him spurt blood onto the sheets. How much blood has he lost? Surely, too much to live.

Yet he’s still here.

Ra’s’s invasion should feel worse than this, but it’s dimmed by the sharp pain that demands Tim’s full attention, and he wonders if he should be grateful. He doesn’t feel grateful. He feels dizzy.

Tim groans as he’s rocked, the agonized sounds falling from his lips like tears. It only makes Ra’s thrust harder, seeming to want to reach the very depths of him. It’s in his intestines, he realizes, one of the ones that’s been cut open. That’s why it hurts so much. Every agony makes him groan and twitch, Ra’s’s fingers digging into the gauzy top of the wedding dress, one hand on his hip.

This isn’t going to end.

Ra’s is sicker than he thought, even crazier than he’d expected. Tim gasps at the ceiling with another thrust, too weak to move away. The tips of his fingers are starting to go numb, spasming as they rest on his stomach. There’s no pressure anymore, just wave after wave of pulsing blood, in time with his heartbeat—in time with Ra’s’s vicious thrusting. Tim feels like he’s fading.

It feels colder, and there is a kind of fear blooming in him—a primal fear, the terror of a body shutting down around itself. It’s drowning him, making him gasp; perhaps that’s his blood, dribbling down his chin.

The only warm things are his blood and Ra’s inside of him. Tim tries to say something, but his mouth doesn’t properly move. Stars dance in front of him. Someone is grabbing at his hand, at his fingers, pushing them aside and Tim is too weak to resist. His arm flops to his side, pink with blood.

Then Ra’s’s hand is prying apart his gut. Tim spasms, sputtering. His words are slurred in blood. “Ra’s—please, Ra’s, Ra’s, Ra’s—”

The muscle tries to tighten around the man’s hand as he dips into Tim’s body, but he presses past it. “Sing for me, my beautiful bird.”

Tim screams. Ra’s is rooting around inside him, literally rearranging his guts in a way that his mind is not made to comprehend. His intestines are spilling out now, falling from the twitching wound and spasming on the sides of his dress. Something slimy touches his arm, and Tim knows what it is. Tim can’t stop himself from moving, arching under Ra’s’s hands and screaming as the man doesn’t stop his assault, from either his hand or his cock.

A hand closes around something inside him. Tim doesn’t know what it is, Ra’s’s hand pushing past organs and too near his spine when he finds it. Tim cries out again, writhing on the bloody bed in his ruined wedding dress.

“You truly are a _robin_ ,” Ra’s murmurs, to Tim or himself, Tim can’t tell. And here Tim is, red as a robin. Ra’s’s hand starts to move at a punishing pace, in tandem with his thrusting. With a sick, dizzy feeling Tim realize what’s happening—he’s jerking himself off, _inside_ Tim’s body, hand grasped around his cock nestled in his intestine. Ra’s is gasping, hips stuttering, and Tim yells one last time before come is painting his insides with warmth where warmth should not be.

He feels like all energy has been drained from him as he stares at the ceiling, slowly fading. It feels closer now, his guts barely functioning, Ra’s’s seed poisoning his insides. Slowly, the man pulls out, come leaking on the sheets. Tim gasps, wet and pained.

“Shhh, bride,” Ra’s whispers, suddenly too close. “It’s almost over.”

Ra’s is moving up on Tim’s body, Tim’s bloody hands weakly pawing at his boots. “What—what . . .”

The man is rutting into the blood in Tim’s stomach. Tim is trying to shake his head, but darkness is starting to take over his vision. What’s happening, Ra’s can’t be hard again so soon, he can’t be—

He can’t want to—

Fingers are prying the flaps of ruined skin open once again, the air hitting Tim’s insides. “No, no.”

“Shhh,” Ra’s says, and it is far away.

Something jams hard and heavy into his guts, brushing against organs, and Tim’s vision goes dark.

* * *

Tim breathes in water.

His eyes snap open and all he can see is green. Tim claws at the water, a furious strength taking control of all his limbs. He can’t tell which way us up, lungs burning, every limb thrashing towards anything that might be the surface. Everything looks the same. He’s drowning, drowning—

He breaks the surface.

Tim stares up at a cavernous ceiling, blinking water out of his eyes. Everything has a subtle green glow as he sucks in huge breaths of air. Hands splash in the water. Tim’s mouth tastes of salt and death.

There is only one thing he knows: he is angry.

As soon as he catches sight of the shore, he’s paddling to it. It only takes him a few practiced strokes to start coughing up water on the black sand. It’s rough under his naked palms.

There is someone else on the shore. Tim’s eyes flick to the large shape like a predator. He doesn’t recognize the person, not in this fevered state. Instead, he lunges at them with a strangled war cry, ripped from his throat.

The man catches him by the shoulder, swinging him to the side with his superior size. The inside of an elbow cuts off his air. Tim’s heels scrabble at the harsh sand, nails scratching at the man’s arm. He wants to scream.

“Are we going to behave now, Timothy?”

The words jog something inside him. He tries to speak, again, but his vision is fading out fast. The man must have cut off his carteroid. His hands fall limply to the ground as he passes out.

Tim comes back sore on the sand, rubbing his throat. It aches. He stares up at Ra’s al Ghul. All he wears is a loose shirt and pants, the neckline dipping in a low V that shows off a well-muscled chest. Tim is naked.

“Fuck,” he curses, throat rough.

Ra’s raises a brow. “Language.”

Tim opens his mouth to snap something back, but eyes blink closed as he remembers the exact kind of person he is returning to. The exact kind of situation.

The kind of place.

And all at once, the fact that he’s _returned_ hits him like a truck. Tim knows what that feels like. He really has been hit by a truck before.

His eyes flick up accusingly to Ra’s’s green. The light casts Ra’s in strange shadows. “You brought me back,” he accuses, voice cracking.

“This world would be dimmer without you, Timothy.”

“You put me in the pit!” Tim stumbles to his feet, the fury coming back. Ra’s is as calm as he ever is, the ocean ready to break out in a killing storm.

“Yes.”  
Tim stares at him, gasping, almost unsure of what to say. “You poisoned me.”

Ra’s raises a brow. “I know you believe I am insane—”

“You think?” Tim interrupts. It’s a mistake. Seconds later he falls the coarse sand, the victim of a vicious backhand. He grunts. It will bruise.

“The pit cannot make a man what he is not. If you believe you are so noble, then you should have nothing to fear.”

“The pit drove you mad,” Tim whispers. “I’ve seen it in you, Ra’s.” _You’re deluding yourself, old man._

Ra’s crouches. “Did you know me before?”

Tim stares at him. “Why did you kill me?”

“It is _our_ tradition, Timothy. I indulged in yours. It is only fair that you indulge in mine.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I believed it would make you feel more at home.”

“You put me in a _dress_.”

“You are my bride,” Ra’s counters.

Tim sighs. He feels, suddenly, very tired, slowly shaking his head. “I don’t want this.”

“It will make you stronger,” Ra’s tells him. He always seems to respond to Tim’s weakness with _comfort_. Tim feels a little sick thinking about it.

“I don’t want to be like _you_ ,” Tim murmurs.

“You are something wonderful, Timothy. I will make you into something extraordinary.”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just . . . really love the idea of ra's, who has lived a long time and in so many different places, marrying tim in EVERY way he knows how. i had to look up ancient marriage traditions in five different countries for this. but the best part is obviously dressing up timmy.  
> i hesitated to post this bc the next chapter isn't written, but it's been sitting around for four months, so . i WILL finish it eventually it may just.  
> u know.  
> take a while  
> *cranks the unfinished fic counter up one with shame*

Tim wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping. He remembers running, remembers screaming, but the dream slips through his fingers like running water, leaving him empty. The only thing he can feel now is firm arms wrapped around him—Ra’s’s—and the only thing he can see is pitch blackness. Tim sucks in gasping breaths, trying to wriggle out of the grip so he can get air between himself and sweat soaked sheets.

“Timothy?”

Timothy stares at two glowing green eyes in front of him and jerks in shock, trying to fight his way out of the grip that encircles him. A scream is caught in his throat—

“Timothy.” Ra’s sounds concerned. “Are you all right?”

Tim blinks at him, heaving heavy breaths in the iron grip he can’t get out of, staring with wide yes. “You—oh—that’s you—I almost—dammit—“

He can see the green glowing orbs narrow in disapproval. “Timothy.”

“Sorry,” Tim mutters. Ra’s kidnaps a teenager and expects him not to curse. “I didn’t expect—didn’t know your eyes . . . well, they glow.”

He can almost see Ra’s’s amused smile. “A side effect of the pit.”

Tim feels fear jerk through him. He works a palm out of the sheets, holds it in front of his face—but he can’t see anything. Just darkness.

No sickly green glow.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

The palm slowly lowers, even if Tim can barely see it in front of him. “Can I—” He tries to wiggle out of Ra’s’s grip. “The sheets are sweaty.” Ra’s loosens his grip so Tim can slip out of the covers, but it seems reluctant. It’s good not to have the man’s hands on him, though. Ra’s is big on touch, on brushing his hands around Tim’s shoulders or putting a hand on the small of his back or carding fingers through Tim’s hair. Instead, he stretches out on top of the blankets, feeling the air cool him off.

“You were having a nightmare,” Ra’s observes.

Tim shrugs. “I don’t remember it,” he says, defensive.

“You often have them,” Ra’s says. “I expect you don’t wish to return to sleep.”

“Not really.” Tim shrugs. “You can, though.”

“I think not,” Ra’s murmurs. He’s pushed himself up on one strong arm, and Tim is suddenly aware of how naked he is. A hand brushes Tim’s hair and the back of his neck, almost calming.

Nobody has ever touched Tim as much as Ra’s does.

“Let me help you,” Ra’s purrs. Tim swallows.

“Ra’s—”

“This will feel good,” he promises, pushing him down with one hand, pulling the sheets off of himself with the other.

“Please,” Tim begs. Sometimes begging works, with Ra’s. Sometimes it just makes him angry.

“Stay still, _arossa_.” Ra’s’s fingers trail up Tim’s body, across the place where the knife’s scar from so long ago would have lain. A thumb brushes over one of his nipples, playing at the piercing, tugging on the chain.

Tim bites his lip. Ra’s has introduced him to more pleasure than he thought possible. That doesn’t mean he likes it. Or that he wants it.

_It’s common for victims of rape to come and think they deserved it._

“Relax,” Ra’s murmurs, and it’s too easy for Tim to close his eyes and give himself over to whatever Ra’s wants to do to him. Just let it happen. It doesn’t mean he’s giving in as Ra’s’s teeth click against the piercing, biting so that Tim arches under him. Ra’s is too good with his tongue.

He twists Tim’s other nipple, tugging the chain to and fro, pulling on it as Tim gasps. He can’t be getting hard from this. Did Ra’s really train him so well?

He’s like a fucking pet.

Ra’s’s tongue trails down, a hand pushing Tim’s thigh up to gain access to him. Tim had wished he could simply be content to work Tim off so easily, but it seems that he wants his pleasures, too.

Ra’s grabs lubricant from a small bedside table, carefully carved, slicking his fingers with it. They slip into Tim too easily, from too much practice. Experienced fingers find his prostate, pressing and stroking within seconds.

Tim arches, moaning with a mouth that won’t close, fingers fisting in the sheets. Ra’s bites at his nipple, using the full weight of his body to hold Tim down on that bed. It will be the stuff of nightmares later. Right now, all Tim knows is how _good_ it feels to have the pads of Ra’s’s fingers pressing against him. Ra’s has the chain between his teeth, tugging on it, like a tiger who’s got his teeth into something precious.

Tim _doesn’t_ whine when Ra’s takes his fingers out. He doesn’t, he’s sure he doesn’t. Instead, he bites his lip. There’s no way Ra’s doesn’t notice, but Tim’s not interested in degrading himself like that. Not any more than he already is as Ra’s slides into him, stretching him wide with his length. It feels familiar as it slips in, Tim’s muscles fluttering around the intrusion as Ra’s groans in pleasure.

“You are beautiful like this.”

Tim’s face burns. He doesn’t need any more reminders of his position. Ra’s slowly, smoothly slides in. The pace he sets lets him thrust steady and deep. The head of his cock brushes Tim’s prostate, then pushes into it, hips moving at a practiced pace. He pulls again on the chain that connects Tim’s nipples. Small moans trickle from Tim’s lips with every thrust, hands clenching in the sheets. He’d learned long ago not to try to push Ra’s off—nothing infuriated the older man more.

Maybe if he comes Ra’s will stop. Tim makes to push his hand down, but Ra’s grabs his wrist, still thrusting easily. “Let me,” he says, and a hand grasps Tim’s cock, the pad of the hand brushing over the head of it. Tim moans, loud this time, sweat hot on his brow. Ra’s’s cock keeps brushing against his prostate, so deep inside him. Precum beads on the tip of his cock, and he can see it there.

Ra’s always makes sure Tim comes first. Tim’s never sure why, perhaps he just lasts longer. Tim is never able to stop himself. This time will be no different, the muffled slap of skin on skin and Tim’s breathy gasps signifying the passing of the time until the gasps turn to a moan that is dragged out from between his teeth. Come spills onto Ra’s’s fingers, onto Tim’s stomach, and he can feel its warmth.

Ra’s doesn’t stop. Tim groans again, but this time in too-hot agony as Ra’s doesn’t stop teasing his prostate, doesn’t stop the timed thrusts. Sparks spill across his skin, twitching and overstimulated.

The only reprieve is when Ra’s stutters and stops, length all the way in, groaning. Tim feels warmth spread inside him, sees Ra’s’s softly glowing green eyes stare down at him. He doesn’t move from that position for too long—Tim feels himself drifting off to sleep before Ra’s finally slips out of him, laying next to him.

“Sleep, _arossa_ ,” is the last thing he hears before he falls into darkness.

* * *

“We will be married, soon,” Ra’s tells him. Tim almost chokes on the wine that he’s sipping, sitting at a low table across from Ra’s. It dribbles down his chin, and he wipes it off carelessly on his no doubt expensive sleeve.

Tim studies Ra’s for a few seconds. “We already were married.”

Ra’s swirls his own wine, eyes fixed on Timothy in the intense way that he has. “I will marry you in every way, in every time, Beloved. Your way is not the only way. I have seen many, many more marriage ceremonies.”

Tim stares. His gut aches. Ra’s’s traditions. “And will you . . . kill me?”

“It is our way.”

Tim feels sick. “If you do, don’t bring me back.”

“I would not take you out of this world if I did not intend to return you to it.”

Tim takes a long draught of wine. It’s warm going down. What had Jason called it? Liquid courage. He narrows his eyes at Ra’s. “I will not cooperate.”

The green eyes flare. “Think very carefully about your next words.”

“I’m not going to be complicit in being turned into a _monster_ ,” Tim whispers. “You’ll have to drag me there in chains. I won’t give you the ceremony you want, Ra’s.”

Ra’s takes another sip of wine. There is something calculating behind those eyes. Tim doesn’t know if he’s made a mistake or not.

“The Chinese,” Ra’s explains, “put great emphasis on the bride leaving her family and being given to the family of the groom. It would do you good, _arossa_ , to take that lesson to heart. Your family will not be coming for you. Not even when you call out for them in your dreams.”

Tim’s face flushes. He hadn’t—hadn’t _really_ been, right? He couldn’t have been. Ra’s is just gaslighting him. But what purpose would he have in doing so?

“I don’t—”

“I hear you doing it, Timothy.”

Ra’s’s words are final. Tim stares into those green eyes and wonders what kind of trials are ahead of him.

* * *

Ra’s never tells him how much time passes. Tim can only keep track of it by the rise and fall of the sun outside the barred windows, cutting the light in half as it falls on the stone floor. All he can see is the towering peaks outside. Still, it feels like only a week before he is to be married, again.

Married and murdered.

Tim wonders how Ra’s will do it this time. Hopefully something quick—slit his throat, maybe? Fuck it afterwards? It makes him sick. Everything about _being here_ makes him sick. Everything about not being able to escape, about having Ra’s all over him, about being a glorified concubine, makes him sick to his stomach.

_Unless Ra’s is giving you attention_ , some part of him argues, and Tim quashes it down before it can make noise.

Ra’s prepares the tea, and passes it over to Tim. It tastes of pomegranate, and it’s warm going down his throat. It reminds him of the story of Hades and Persephone, stolen from her home to become the bride in a cursed world of death. Except here, Tim doesn’t have the luxury of leaving Ra’s.

“You’re late,” Tim observes.

Ra’s offers Tim a piece of rye bread, as warm as it always is, prepared with as much care. “I have many responsibilities. As much as I wish to spend more of my time with you, I cannot.”

Tim is grateful, for once, that Ra’s runs an international death cult.

The tea is hot. Tim’s skin feels clammy, sweaty, and it almost, almost doesn’t alert him. But not once in the soft touches and the murmured words of endearment has he let himself forget what Ra’s is.

“You drugged me.” Tim puts down the tea. Ra’s would know that he would notice, so enough of it is probably inside him to do whatever Ra’s wants. Yet—Ra’s has never had trouble holding Tim down to have his way with him before.

“Yes.” Ra’s takes another sip of _his_ tea, which is certainly not drugged. Tim should’ve switched them. Idiot.

Too comfortable.

“Why?”

“You will be married to me, my bride, whether you care to be or not.” Ra’s’s voice is not unkind, but it is lethal. Final. Dangerous.

Tim blinks his eyes. He’s trying to jump to his feet, but he can feel it all taking effect at once. Stars dance in front of his eyes, and he feels like he’s not quite anchored to the ground. “No,” he insists, dizzily, “ _no_.”

Ra’s is next to him. Warmth covers his hands, holding him steady. This drug takes effect too quickly—Tim’s almost sure it’s a specific compound the League made just for this purpose. He’d think on it more, but his mind is already going fuzzy. The stands of thought are unraveling, making him shiver. The only constant is the man behind him, murmuring in his ear.

“Let me,” he says. Tim’s tipped over before he knows it, the robes falling around him, his head laying against Ra’s’s chest. He mumbles something under his breath about not having finished his teatime meal, but Ra’s ignores him. Within a few steps they’re over near the bath—something larger than even the one in Tim’s parents’ house. Ra’s gestures servants in to begin to draw it.

“Don’t want to,” Tim mumbles. He stares at Ra’s resentfully. His body is weak, his mind fuzzy with what had been given to him. Tim barely understands what’s happening.

“Shhh,” Ra’s murmurs, brushing aside Tim’s hair. He starts to undo the back of his dress, dangerous fingers instead stripping Tim of his clothes. None of his touch is cruel or dangerous, simply probing and gentle. The vulnerability of it isn’t lost on him even in his drugged state, the cool air across his skin and scars. Ra’s has seen it all before. He still gently traces the scars, Tim’s skin twitching under him. He sways a little. Ra’s leaves the collar that Tim always wears on, leaves the silver chain between his nipples.

The water is hot as he’s lowered into it. It burns the tips of his toes, Tim hissing at the temperature. “Get in,” Ra’s murmurs. “It’s just warmth.”

Tim sinks into the bath. The servants have disappeared. It smells of citrus, leaves floating in his ripples. All he wants to do as soon as he’s in is lay there and never get up, falling asleep in his fuzzy mind until the water gets cold. Instead, Ra’s is undoing his hair, slowly working it into the water.

“I can give you everything, Timothy,” Ra’s murmurs. “You simply have to allow me.” Fingers card through his hair, a hand picking up an unlabeled bottle that Tim takes as shampoo. He can’t see Ra’s, but he imagines him rolling up his sleeves so he doesn’t get water on his clothing, kneeling at the edge of the tub. Slowly, he works his hands into Tim’s locks, rubbing at his scalp. Tim can feel the cold shampoo. It’s a pleasant contrast to the warmth against his skin. He watches pale fingers float under the surface, leaves floating over it.

Tim can feel the bubbles start to drip down his face. Ra’s’s fingers work through his hair idly, splaying it over the edge of the tub. Tim sinks further into the warmth, though he can’t tell if it’s the warmth of the bath or of his mind.

“There we are.” Ra’s is speaking softly, right next to Tim’s ear. He’s grabbing Tim’s shoulders, repositioning him near the side of the tub. Tim splashes as he moves, and he sees some of it get on the man’s rolled-up sleeves, but Ra’s doesn’t seem to mind. Ra’s’s face is blurred, the heat starkly clear against Tim’s skin.

Ra’s pulls out another bottle, this one subtly different. He starts at the back of Tim’s neck with rough, practiced hands, pushing soap behind his ears and under his chin. Ra’s’s hands travel down his front, not pulling Tim out of the water but making sure the soap gets everywhere it needs to. It’s rubbed into his shoulders, across his biceps as he sighs and leans into the touch.

Nobody touches Tim like Ra’s does. It’s not erotic, or cruel, it’s comforting and relaxing and Tim feels himself melting into the water as Ra’s washes him.

“Good,” Ra’s purrs. He’s cleaning Tim’s hips now, hands across his thighs, the soap trickling up through his fingers to float on the surface of the water. The smell of citrus permeates Tim’s nose, making him almost as heady as the drugs Ra’s has put into him. Ra’s meticulously cleans him, hands all over him, attention focused utterly on Tim.

_This isn’t so bad_ , the fuzzy mind thinks.

_I could get used to this._

The thought strikes him as wrong for some reason, but he doesn’t know why. Instead, he’s focused on the fact that Ra’s is pulling him out of the water, the liquid splashing everywhere. Servants rush forward with towels to encircle him, pushing a bath mat under his feet, everything smelling so sweet. Ra’s wraps the towels around him, rubbing at the water still on him and pulling Tim’s long hair out of the way.

It’s so much longer than when it started.

A towel is wrapped around his head, Ra’s working the water out of his hair before discarding it. Tim just stands there, swaying slightly. It’s easier to follow commands like this, to simply have things done to him.

“I’ll take care of everything,” Ra’s murmurs.

_Ra’s will take care of everything._

Ra’s catches the chain between Tim’s nipples to guide him over to the bed. Tim winces, walking fast to do what he’s told, the soft tugging making him ache. A towel is thrown down on the bed and Tim sits there, still damp, staring at the marble wall. Twilight streams in through the barred window.

Tim wonders why he’s imprisoned. He doesn’t want to leave.

Ra’s takes a golden comb from one of his servants. It’s inset with emeralds, tines long and thin. Ra’s hums, taking his seat behind Tim on the bed. Tim’s body slides down towards him until Ra’s’s hand catches his shoulder, steadying Tim against him. “I’m going to comb your hair.” His voice is low and comforting, and Tim leans into its dark warmth.

The tines of the comb brush against his scalp as he stares at the marble wall. He’s cool, but it’s a pleasant cool, offset by the warmth of the towels. There is barely any pain, just Ra’s gently working his way through the knots. Tim can hear him murmuring in Cantonese, but right now, it doesn’t matter to him. All that matters is Ra’s’s low tones and the hands moving against the back of his neck.

Touch. Tim has been deprived of it for so long, ever since he was a small child. Now, he doesn’t know why he’d ever fight back against all this attention lavished upon him. The humming, the light touches against his neck and shoulders, the hand almost against his cheek as Ra’s combs his hair.

There is some part of him that tells him that this is wrong, and Tim feels himself examine that part and then achingly, slowly set it aside. All he wants is this, the warmth and the touch and someone fussing over him, the low tones and the soft tugs on his scalp. Tim knows that he’s losing himself, knows that he shouldn’t—

But he lets it happen, leaning back against Ra’s al Ghul and letting sleep take him.

* * *

Tim wakes up with a pounding in his head and cotton in his mouth. The light is a little too bright, and he feels like the one time Jason got him to drink.

Ra’s moves beside him, eyes towering over him.

“You drugged me,” Tim says.

“Yes,” Ra’s agrees. The tip of the needle glints in the light. Tim jerks away, trying to throw the blankets off of him. A sharp pain sinks into his thigh. He turns around to see the liquid draining into him. Ra’s tilts his head as he pulls the needle out.

“Fuck you,” Tim hisses.

“Language,” Ra’s says.

* * *

“It’s an auspicious date for a wedding,” Ra’s murmurs to him. The chains strung between Tim’s nipples are gold this time. A thin line of one runs from the ring in his collar to Ra’s’s hand as he’s dressed and perfumed. Ra’s is already in red, in wide sleeves. A dragon climbs up a sash over his robes, white-cut hair styled carefully. Tim can feel silk against his body, the shirt already on him, meticulously embroidered with gold stitches. Someone tugs on his hair, and he can feel the weight on it—some kind of headdress, most likely.

“I’m already married,” Tim says, brows scrunching together. He sways a little, but Ra’s steadies him.

“You’ll be married again,” Ra’s says. “To me, bride.” Fingers brush at Tim’s shoulders, ghosting over red silk. “I will marry you in every way.”

Tim blinks hazily. His head is heavy. The sashes places over his shoulders are heavy, too, kept in place by fabric wound tightly around his waist. Birds stare back at him, in contrast to Ra’s’s dragons.

Ra’s is cooing in his ear. “You need to learn that you belong to me, Timothy. I will take you as my bride until I am satisfied. This is a _lesson_ , I want you to remember that, if you remember nothing else.”

Tim barely understands. The silk brushes over his skin, making him shiver. Someone powders his face, tints his lips. Shoes are slipped onto his feet—too small for his feet, and his toes are pushed together as they’re pressed into it. Tim winces. It hurts to stand, so he leans against Ra’s. Someone attaches something heavy to his hair, balanced on top of his head, tassels hanging down in golden strokes.

Ra’s grabs at the chain connected to his collar. Tim is forced to step forward on aching feet, walking behind Ra’s as if in a haze. The servants part around them. Silk moves past his legs, shivering along his body. Walking is almost as difficult as it was . . . last time.

Last time.

Something had happened last time.

What had it been?

Tim shakes his head, the heavy headdress with it, an unfamiliar weight. Ra’s pulls forward on the golden leash, and Tim follows after him.

Firecrackers, or something like them, go off as they reach the place. A red carpet trails out of it, and Tim moves towards it even without Ra’s’s help. His demeanor is fuzzy, his mind full of something like cotton. Even Ra’s looks far away. Tim flinches at the sound, but Ra’s holds his shoulders tight.

The carpet is red under his shoes. He looks at it, blending in with his dress, staring even as Ra’s tugs on his leash. Slowly, they walk up the red carpet, Tim trailing behind Ra’s. Stars dance in front of his vision.

“What—”

“Silence,” Ra’s commands dangerously. Tim frowns. His mouth shuts. He will be silent. Something is sneaking up behind him, in his mind, something he doesn’t like. Something dark, that threatens the hazy lightness he’s floating in. Tim tries to push it aside.

They come to the front. There’s not much there. Someone hands Ra’s a cup of some sort, inlaid in gold, smelling of alcohol.

Ra’s takes a long sip, blood red on his lips, before handing it to Tim. “Drink, bride.” Tim drinks. It tastes heavy on his tongue.

The cup is handed off to a servant.

“Now, we bow. Bow to the heavens, bride.”

Ra’s’s hand cradles the back of Tim’s neck, pressing his head down until he bows, low and subservient. Tim wilts into it, only coming up for air when he feels Ra’s tugging on the back of his robes. The gold he wears on his head is so heavy, and it feels heavy as his eyes.

Tim’s not all here, he knows. He can feel himself drifting, even as he stares at Ra’s’s sharp, satisfied smile.

“Bow to me, bride.”

As Tim hazily bows to Ra’s, Ra’s bowing back, the motion has no significance to him. He sees Ra’s, though, sees that he’s pleased. _That’s good._ A pleased Ra’s isn’t an angry Ra’s.

Tim is fuzzy on everything, but that sensation in the back of his mind is coming back. That _knowledge_ that something is wrong.

Ra’s leans in.

Tim takes a step back.

Those green eyes narrow, dangerous. The sense of trepidation increases until it’s pounding in the back of his head, pulsing in his very veins.

“Come here,” Ra’s says, and his voice is calm, but his eyes are lethal.

“What are you . . . going to do?”

Tim stumbles. The leash is pulled forward violently, Tim almost tripping over his feet as he moves forwards.

_Pressed down on a bed, Ra’s on top of him, screaming as fingers dig into bloodied guts._

“No!” Tim tries to jerk away.

Pain explodes over the side of his face. Tim falls hard to the marble floor, dress splaying around him, trying desperately to catch himself. One hand props him up, one hand pressed to his face where Ra’s’s backhand had landed. Blood dribbles from Tim’s nose, turning his lips cherry red.

“You,” Ra’s snarls, “will not speak to me in such a manner. You will not even _think_ to speak to me in such a manner.” Tim gathers his skirt around him, trying to preserve his modesty, trying to curl into himself to escape the rage. He doesn’t want to be here. This is wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

“Stop hurting me,” Tim whispers. Even as the words leave his mouth he knows, somehow, that they will be futile.

“You have made your choice, bride,” Ra’s hisses.

Then Ra’s is on him.

The green eyes make him look like some wild beast. The drug that Ra’s pumped into him thrums through Tim’s veins but he still tries to push himself away. Self-preservation takes over his mind as Ra’s straddles his hips, a hand clenching around his throat. Tim knows then that he is going to die, one way or the other. Sparks dance in front of Ra’s’s face. A knife cuts down his thigh.

Tim’s legs try to kick once freed, but they find nothing. Shadows of utterly silent ninja loom over him.

“You will learn what it means to _belong to me_ ,” Ra’s says. “Whether you care for it or not.” Tim tries to fight back, muscles not responding and mind fuzzy.

They’re all watching him. Tim can feel every eye as Ra’s bares him to the world, pressing in between Tim’s legs. This time he doesn’t even bother to prepare him. Tim arches with a scream as the length of it cuts into him—a scream cut off by the hand around his throat tightening.

“I control you,” Ra’s murmurs, cock buried to the hilt. “I own you.” He snaps his hips. Tim gags on nothing. Blood slicks Ra’s’s cock. “You will not make a _sound_ without my permission.”

Ra’s sets a pace that sends Tim rocking into the hard ground, his head pressed against it. They’re watching every second of Ra’s claiming him, owning him. Taking him in front of everyone. The only sound is the man’s hitching breath as he slams into Tim. Tim’s legs widen, anything to make it hurt _less_.

Blackness takes over his vision to the tune of his pounding heart, to the rhythm of every thrust finding places in him it should not. Tim is nothing, drugged and dizzy and ruined, on the cold floor of this room. It makes his face burn.

Passing out from lack of oxygen is almost a relief. All Tim can hope for is that he doesn’t come back for days, not for weeks, but seconds later his eyes blink open slowly. His throat aches.

Something warm is blooming in his guts. Ra’s is moving away, tucking his cock back in. Tim’s thighs press together as he tries to stop come from trickling down out of him, most likely tinged with blood. He sucks in gulps of air. Ra’s says something.

Two ninja hoist Tim up by the arms. He’s yanked back, dress still cut open, tripping over the tiny shoes he was given to wear.

“Ra’s!” Tim’s voice is rough. The words don’t come out right. Ra’s ignores him. “Ra’s!”

Ra’s is talking to one of his ninja, gesturing towards Tim. Tim tries to push them off. He feels more lucid than he did, and he wonders if the drugs are starting to wear off. His limbs still feel heavy and uncooperative. He aches where Ra’s raped him.

The ninja are dragging him somewhere. Tim tries to go limp and resist, but they’re strong enough, and Tim is small enough, that it doesn’t matter. He curses himself for not being built like Jason or Bruce is. Tim stares at Ra’s’s profile, choking for air.

It’s only a few feet before Tim is pressed up against something. His hands are roughly yanked behind him as he struggles. One of the ninja grunts in pain, and Tim takes that as a small, small victory. The other, however, winds chains around his midsection, binding his arms tight to what feels like a pole. Tim thrashes. A third ninja comes over to hold him down as they press him against the wood, the chains biting into his skin.

Tim struggles as they continue to tie him up, but it hurts. More ninja that he hadn’t noticed gather around, carrying something, dropping it at his feet. Tim struggles more violently. His mind is still hazy, wood on the ground beneath him, not quite putting the pieces together. Kindling stacked beneath the red dress, Ra’s pulling out what looks like _matches_ , and—

This is how Tim is going to die.

_Oh, god, no_.

“The phoenix is a symbol of femininity in the Chinese wedding, bride. It rises from fiery ashes, more beautiful than before.”

“Please,” Tim begs, still trying to move. “Ra’s, please, don’t do this—”

Ra’s strikes the match. Tim watches that fire dance in his hand, so hot, so cruel. He will feel its heat soon enough.

“Ra’s, please! Please! I’m sorry, whatever you want—”

“Silence,” Ra’s snarls. Tim’s mouth snaps shut.

“You had your chance,” he says, perfectly calm, perfectly lethal. He might even be throwing something to Tim as he flicks the match underhand, landing at the foot of Tim’s dress. He snaps his fingers. Ninja gather around like shadows, some carrying torches of real fire.

Ra’s has to have had planned this.

The execution begins.

It doesn’t hurt, at first. It’s simply warmth, lapping at his feet, a friendly fire. One that doesn’t stop as it rises higher. Tim’s almost, almost protected by his shoes and his dress for the few seconds before it catches, crimson running up the silk as fire flickers along his skin.

Tim screams, sucking in long breaths of air in between. The smoke burns his throat. The fire burns every other part of him. It catches on his skin. He writhes helplessly against the thing he’s tied to, desperate to get away, but the chains hold tight. It’s worst around his feet. He can feel the shoes melting off of him, melting _into_ his skin. The dress is burning white hot, flames licking at the bottom of Tim’s chin. Smoke rises around him like a veil.

Ra’s disappears behind it, still dressed in those red wedding robes, staring with piercing green eyes at Tim while he burns. Tim hears screaming, far away. He realizes it’s him—he hasn’t stopped. The pain is starting to take over, white-hot at the tips of every nerve, creeping up his dress. Seeing is becoming impossible. Shadows dance beyond the fire like demons.

All that’s left is sheer, burning agony.

Tim screams until his vocal cords melt into his esophagus.

* * *

Instead of gold, everything is green. Tim is still screaming. It’s an impulse he can barely stop, choking for air only to let it out in another long cry. Thrashing limbs desperately tread water. Tim doesn’t want to go back. He can’t go back. He’s sure that if he dips beneath the surface, he will go _back_ to that red-tinted agony, his very skin melting down to the bone.

Something wraps around him. Chains? It can’t be chains, because chains aren’t this strong, and—

“Relax, Beloved,” Ra’s murmurs. Tim gasps against him, finally clinging to something in the water. “I trust you’ve learned your lesson. You did not make a beautiful corpse, this time.”

Tim can barely process the words. All he can do is bury his face in Ra’s’s shoulder and cry.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY EARLY CHRISTMAS! happy ra'stim celebration. tim is not having fun but we are. 
> 
> also thank you everyone who has left comments <3 i will reply to all of them starting this chap i promise, i've been bad abt it in the past :/ FEAST RASTIM STANS
> 
> also thank u to blue for beta reading <3

It creeps up on Tim, like a shadow following in his footsteps. He thinks of it, sometimes, out of the corner of his mind—pushing it aside and doing his very best to _not_. The truth is, though: sooner or later, he will have to marry Ra’s again. Tim still wakes up thrashing, thinking of flames and fire and phoenixes, panting in the darkness until Ra’s pulls him back to bed or he gets up to get a drink of water. Tim supposes that Ra’s must be waiting until he _just_ feels comfortable enough to relax, and then strike.

Most of the time, he’s focused on . . . the _children_. There’s one of them already, and more on the way. Artificial wombs provide an easy way to create them, and it seems that Ra’s has learned from his failure with Damian and decided to get more than one, this time. Genetic variety, perhaps. Tim knows that he _should_ be attached, _should_ feel something when the child passes him in the hall. _Draco_.

“Named for you, _arossa,_ ” Ra’s had murmured in his ear when he first held the child. Tim had stared down at the baby and wondered if he was a bad person for feeling . . . nothing.

Nothing except relief that _he_ wasn’t the one who had to carry it. If biological pregnancies weren’t so “difficult and complicated,” (Ra’s’s words), Tim is sure he would have been saddled with the burden of incubation. Instead, he’s pulled in during the evenings with Ra’s for awkward visits, staring down at a boy with brown hair and dark eyes that he doesn’t recognize himself in. The toddler tilts its head and smiles at him. Tim knows he should smile back—something about child development—so he does, empty and cold. It seems to satisfy Draco, though, who goes back to babbling and playing with a toy sword.

“We will train him soon,” Ra’s murmurs in his ear. “He will make a wonderful prospective heir, Timothy. Yours and mine.”

Tim wonders how long it’s been since he smiled in the presence of anyone other than Ra’s. It doesn’t feel like he has any claim whatsoever to the boy. He certainly won’t be raising it, or having anything to do with its development. Instead, he just feels a dull, empty ache, as if the something that was supposed to be there simply was cut away, as smooth and purposeful as a surgery. Maybe Tim cut it away himself, but he doesn’t remember doing it.

There’s no chance of instilling morals into the child. “He’s going to be a feral child, like Damian,” Tim says blankly, staring at the dark eyes of Draco. They don’t seem to have anything behind them. Maybe he’s too young for that.

Ra’s’s hand rests on the small of Tim’s back, pulling him close. Tim can feel his warm breath against his face, scent familiar. “We’ll have to see about your attachment, Timothy,” he murmurs. “Maybe I should reconsider incubation in the mother. I wonder if it would promote better emotional bonding?”

Tim’s eyes go wide in horror as he turns to Ra’s. Ra’s looks back at him with a cold, serene look. Tim can’t tell if he’s joking. He truly does not want to ask. That might make Ra’s think it’s a good idea, and Tim can’t allow _any_ encouragement. So he stays silent and pretends _very hard_ that he did not just hear that.

In the meantime, he picks up a toy and crouches down. Tim waves it in front of Draco’s face. Draco grabs for it, and Tim lets his chubby fingers wrap around the toy—a wooden elephant, covered in grey paint.

Draco stuffs it in his mouth without preamble. Tim makes a face.

Ra’s laughs from above him. He waves a nanny over, who kneels down and works on playing with the child. Tim gets back up, pulling up his skirt so he can walk properly. He hopes Ra’s is impressed. And that he’ll reconsider reconsidering making Tim _grow a baby_ _inside him_. Tim doesn’t exactly have the proper equipment, but he has no doubts on Ra’s’s ability to scrounge up hyperadvanced tech to make it work.

The thought alone makes him slightly nauseous.

* * *

Hot tea burns Tim’s tongue as he considers the chessboard in front of him. He doesn’t take his eyes off of it when he puts the cup down, fumbling for a few seconds with finding the table off to his left. Tim’s taken more of Ra’s’s pieces overall, but Ra’s has lost mostly pawns, while Tim’s bishops, rooks, and knights are being chipped away at. He tilts his head this way and that, wondering if a new perspective will make things better. It doesn’t, really.

Tim needs an edge. He pulls at the buttons of his shirt, letting it fall open, almost down to his stomach. His upper teeth bite into his lower lip, turning it crimson, he hopes. He leans forward, eyeing the board and doing his best _not_ to look at Ra’s. With only a little bit of consideration, he moves.

This game he can take his time. Sometimes, to make it more engaging, they play on a clock—a small hourglass they flip every time a move is taken, or a longer one they can stop and start. But this one has been interrupted so many times neither remembers which version is right, so they sometimes take minutes buried in their own thoughts before moving.

Ra’s does this time. Tim eyes him, bright green eyes set deep in a wrinkled face. The Demon is due for a dip in the Lazarus Pit soon. Even his strength and stamina have been lowered lately, though, as Tim notes, still well above that of even a normal younger man. Tim shifts, taking another sip of the tea, this time burning his lips on it. They redden as he leans forwards, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear.

Ra’s looks up at him. He smiles, eyes bright (literally). Ra’s’s smiles are . . . genuine. At first, every twitch of his lips had seemed akin to Joker’s rictus grin, but now the expression almost looks warm. Human. Tim quirks his lips despite himself, just a bit, before going back to the chessboard.

Ra’s moves with a small click. Tim’s braids hang around him in a curtain as he stares at the board. He moves his hand—

Wait. That can’t be. He has to take a few seconds to run it all through in his head again, but _yes_ , that looks like an opening. Possibly a trap, but Tim weighs the risk in a few seconds’ time and declares it solidly worth it before moving his knight.

Ra’s’s brow raises. Tim smirks, leaning back in his chair.

“Intriguing, Detective,” Ra’s murmurs. He has to think for almost twice as long as usual, which makes Tim feel . . .

Proud?

Tim could hold that feeling in his mind and interrogate it, but he pushes away the urge and pretends that it doesn’t exist. Instead, he enjoys the uncomplicated feeling of temporary victory.

Ra’s moves again. The next few moves take almost a half hour to complete, but it feels like a flurry to Tim. A quick back and forth, like an argument of ethics, or a swordfight, simply drawn out over hours. The focus doesn’t waver, Tim keeping his eyes on his opponent.

The tension rises. Something burns in Tim. This might be the match that he _wins_. They’ve been playing chess for so long, and even now that most of their games end in draws, Tim has never been able to pull a victory over on him. He supposes it should be expected—Ra’s has been playing chess since he was born, seven hundred or so years ago, before it was played in English. Not that it doesn’t make him want to _tear his hair out_.

But now? Looking at the board? Tim thinks it just _might_ be possible. If he lures Ra’s into position here, counters a check, double-feints—

It’s with almost ecstatic reverence that he slides the last rook into place. His finger deftly pokes at Ra’s’s black king, tipping it over in a petty sign of victory. Tim smirks up at Ra’s, who looks down at him, unreadable and serene.

“Checkmate.”

Ra’s smiles.

“Oh, well _done_ , Detective.”

The chess pieces clatter as Ra’s reaches over the board, leaning half his body over. Tim doesn’t expect the hands grabbing at his collar, pulling him close. Ra’s takes his mouth in a long, deep kiss, pulling him across the low table.

Tim kisses him back, for once with enthusiasm, still high on his victory. Ra’s is pulling him forwards, pushing him back. More chess pieces fall to the floor and Tim only has the short thought that they’re _fancy_ , probably horribly expensive as carefully blown glass. Then Ra’s’s hand is pushing his skirt up. Ra’s’s mouth devours him, sucking at his lower lip more than Tim ever did. Ra’s’s cape falls to the ground with a heavy noise.

Ra’s’s fingers tease his cock. In their lust it should be a half-coherent grope, but Ra’s always knows exactly how to touch him to make him moan into R’a’s’s mouth. It feels _good_ , and high on his victory, Tim . . . wants to let it happen. Wants to feel good, even when he’s usually utterly stiff.

There’s no harm in it. In enjoying himself, for once. He lets himself be bent over the table, half lowered by R’a’s’s strong arms. Glass chess pieces dig into his back, falling over under his weight, but it matters less and less as Ra’s’s fingers move. He bucks back into Ra’s’s hand. Ra’s trails kisses over his jaw, down his neck, biting and sucking marks into him. All Tim can see is the ceiling through lidded eyes.

“Oh, Timothy.” Ra’s’s breath is hot on his ear. “You beautiful boy.” He bites down, just a _bit_ too hard, as he always tends to do. His hand is moving with a singular rhythm and Tim’s mind slips out of him, only able to think of his building pleasure.

“Fuck— _Ra’s—_ ”

He comes, gasping, as Ra’s licks the sweat off of his collarbone and rests his canines on Tim’s jugular. The pleasure makes him shiver, going limp as Ra’s spreads his legs. As he rides the last of it out, he feels that Ra’s has a finger in him already, probing around.

“There’s—by the bed—” Tim is squirming a little. It feels too strange to be really _pleasure_ , Ra’s not hitting his prostate yet. Of course, Ra’s will fuck him anyways, and Tim would prefer it doesn’t hurt.

“I have some.” The finger doesn’t come out, but something cool trickles down Tim’s crack. Ra’s had the oil on him? Did he expect this? Tim can’t consider it properly, because Ra’s is slipping in another finger and that one _is_ hitting his prostate. He moans, Ra’s only moving his fingers quicker, spreading Tim’s legs with slick fingers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tim gasps.

“Language,” Ra’s says, but Tim can hear the satisfied smile in his voice as he adds another finger, probing deeper. Tim is _hard_ , trying to move his body back onto Ra’s’s fingers as he groans. The chess pieces grind against his shoulder blades, and he’s sure they’re going to bruise later, but can’t bring himself to care. It feels _good_. Winning feels _good_.

Ra’s is mouthing his way up Tim’s chest, teeth tugging at his nipple as his hands keep on moving. Tim doesn’t bother stopping the moaning and the arching of his body up into it, staring up at the ceiling.

“Are you ready for my cock?” Ra’s murmurs against Tim’s skin. Tim doesn’t answer, instead pretending that he’s too caught up in his moans. Ra’s answers the question for himself as Tim feels him recede. Fingers grab his thighs, starting to pull him up off of the ground. The table is low, so Ra’s has to tilt Tim’s hips before he can start pressing his way inside.

Tim breathes heavy as Ra’s’s cock enters him. It feels like _almost_ too much every time, but when he’s finally inside, he always finds that he can take it. At first, it simply splits him open, but when Ra’s starts to move, it feels _fantastic_. When Ra’s tries to make him enjoy himself, he knows exactly the pace that Tim needs, exactly how hard to hit him to push him back against the table with a groan.

“You are—beautiful like this,” Ra’s half-grunts half-murmurs, sliding in and out faster, pushing down into Tim’s body. Tim’s fingers white-knuckle on the side of the table as he tries to keep himself steady, panting, face heated. There are no more fingers on his cock, but there doesn’t need to be. Tim can’t reach down to touch himself because he’s too busy holding steady. If he lets go with even one hand he’ll go sliding at every thrust. He just has to let the tides come.

Ra’s, on the other hand, is too busy holding onto Tim’s thighs. Tim just has to look mournfully at his cock, wondering if he can come just from Ra’s fucking his ass. The angle is awkward, but Ra’s makes it work, Tim groaning with every thrust. Tim can feel himself getting just a _little_ closer every time. Ra’s is going quick and hard. Tim takes back the thought about him losing stamina. His balls slap against Tim’s body, over and over, as he sets a pace that seems impossibly fast.

“Fuck!” Tim gasps out. “Fuck—Fuck, Ra’s—slow down— _ah-ahh—_ ”

He doesn’t slow. If anything, he seems to go quicker, not even pushing all the way in without pulling out to thrust again. Tim is _aching_ , the sensation of being practically pounded into overtaking him. It feels _good_. Hazy, but good. His thighs twitch, body shuddering, staring at the top half of Ra’s’s head as it bobs. All he can do is hold on for the ride.

When Tim finally feels like he really will die without a hand on his cock, Ra’s’s thrusting quickens, finally stopping as he comes with a long, low groan. He grabs Tim’s hips, pulling him forward so he can do it as deep as he can, grunting when Tim’s thighs hit his shoulders.

Ra’s takes a few seconds to breathe. Tim can see the sweat on his forehead, but he has more pressing concerns. His hand, stiff from holding on so tightly, snakes towards his own flushed cock. But before it can close around it, creating the friction he so craves, Ra’s’s hand gets there. It bats his away like a fly.

Tim opens his mouth to protest. It starts to move. He moans into the air, forgetting all about his frustration. His hips cant upwards, Ra’s’s cock still sheathed in him. It takes seconds before he’s moaning in a higher key than Ra’s, coming all over the man’s fingers.

“Wonderful,” Ra’s murmurs. He wipes his fingers off on Tim’s thigh. “It’s a tragedy that you can’t see yourself like this, Beloved. You are exquisite.”

Tim is still hazy in the afterglow, blinking up at Ra’s. The chess pieces dig into his back, pain more apparent now that they’re finished. Slowly, Ra’s slips out—but he doesn’t put Tim’s hips down. Tim squirms a little, but is held steady. He can’t see what Ra’s is doing, but he feels something press at his loosened entrance. It slides in, growing thinner as it goes. Some kind of plug, but shaped differently than any Ra’s has used before.

Tim is gently lowered down. He slides his legs over the table, knocking off two thirds of the remaining pieces in the process. They fall to the carpet with padded sounds, Tim pushing them away with his toes so that he doesn’t step on them. The after-effects of sex make him sigh, standing up to feel himself flutter around the plug inside him. Come dribbles down his thighs, but it’s slower than it could have been. He feels most of it still inside him.

The urge to pull it out is high, but Ra’s won’t take that well. He _likes_ to put things in Tim, to have him still filled when he comes back. So Tim clenches and unclenches, trying to get used to the feeling of it as his skirt falls back over his legs.

Ra’s pulls him over, kissing along Tim’s chin and burying kisses in his hair. He ends the embrace, going over to pick up his cape. “I must go, Timothy. I’ve spent too much time as it is, and I have more responsibilities. I will be back late this evening, or in the early morning.”

“Goodbye,” Tim says. “What did you, um, put in me?”

“Oh, that?” Ra’s hangs in the doorway, disinterested. “One of the white bishops.”

The door closes. Tim is left with come dripping down his legs and a suddenly very distinct feeling that he has not won as much as he thinks he has.

* * *

Ra’s gives him little warning before the wedding. Tim finds out a week before when he sees the ninja running around, bowing in and out of his closet from the shadows. More of them than usual. They’re usually present when Ra’s _weds_ him, like some sick kind of wedding party.

He wishes he hadn’t been paying attention—wishes he hadn’t figured it out. It makes his stomach twist. He can’t even look at Ra’s, twisting his eyes away down to the papers on his desk as he hunches over. There are notes on there, his own designs. He’s gotten into gadgets, cars, the days he’s been trapped in here and can’t spar with Ra’s. That and the video games he makes Ra’s get him.

He never would’ve believed it before, but there’s only so many hours you can play _Crusader Kings II_ before it blurs into familiarity like everything else.

“You seem distracted, Beloved,” Ra’s muses.

Tim doesn’t look at him. “You’re planning another wedding.”

Ra’s lets out a soft sigh. “I suspected you wouldn’t be happy with it.”

Tim glares at the papers as if he could set them on fire with his eyes, like Superman. “Dying hurts, Ra’s,” he says stiffly.

Ra’s’s hands land on his shoulders. “Don’t you think I know that?” he murmurs. “I have died a hundred times. It always hurts.”

“You weren’t murdered on purpose while in a wedding dress.”

“It’s our tradition, Beloved. You die and are reborn. You become something better, something new. The pain transforms you. It is an experience of spirit few are allowed to have.”

“What a fantastic gift,” Tim bites back.

Ra’s runs fingers through his hair. “It will all be finished before the month is out. You’ll be back with me, as you always have been.”

Tim gets up, shrugging Ra’s’s hands off of him. Whether it makes him mad or not, he’s too far past caring. He feels sick. He paces to the bed and then back, feeling suddenly hot in the blouse he was dressed in. There’s no way to quickly pull it off, though, so he lets himself sweat and shiver. He can feel Ra’s’s eyes on him, hot and green and glowing just outside of his periphery.

He’s spun around, a palm pressing against his cheek, staring up at Ra’s’s face. “It will not hurt as much as it did previously, _arossa_. I understand that was disturbing to you. Fire is never a pleasant experience.”

Tim glares into his eyes. “I could smell my skin burning.”

“It will not hurt so much, I promise. You have learned your place much better.” Ra’s’s palm is warm against his cheek as it cradles his face, Ra’s’s other hand pulling him close. “It should be a cause for joy. We will be bonded and wed. You will be a beautiful bride.”

Tim shuts his eyes, trying to focus on Ra’s’s hand and not on his words. He doesn’t see Ra’s’s face moving towards his, only feels lips against him as Ra’s plants a fond kiss on his lips.

“Try to relax. I’ll have the servants bring you food soon.”

Tim throws it all up, shivering against the toilet and trying not to sob.

* * *

“I don’t think one day is enough to fulfill the traditional requirement of never interacting,” Tim snips. “We’re supposed to be virgins.”

Ra’s laughs lightly. Tim wonders if he would’ve preferred a slap. “There are many traditions we must forgo, my bride. Typically, the family plays a large role in the ceremony, but we do not seem to have many.”

Tim stares at his feet. “I have a family, Ra’s.”

“Yes,” Ra’s says dangerously, “you have me, and our son.”

He sweeps out the door, cape trailing behind him. Tim feels cold and strange in his wake, and more than anything, he feels alone.

Tim feels even more alone when the servants sweep in. They’re always women, faces covered up to their noses, in only black. Ra’s likely refuses to have any men around his _bride_ , as if there’s any difference between Tim fucking a woman’s cunt or a man’s ass. He doesn’t bother to fight as they strip him down and shepherd him over to the bath, throwing in sweet-smelling concoctions he doesn’t know about.

How will Ra’s kill him this time?

Not fire again, Ra’s has promised. Maybe he will slit his throat. Quick, even as he chokes on his own blood. Maybe a gun and his brains splatter all over the altar, though that doesn’t seem to be Ra’s’s style. Too quick and lucky for Tim. Maybe he’ll be skinned alive, or boiled, or eaten by rats. Electrocution, decapitation. Decapitation sounds relatively nice, if he forgets all the things he’s heard about consciousness after severing the brain stem.

They lift him lightly out of the bath, wiping him down swiftly with too-fluffy towels and telling him to stand still. Tim winces as he watches warm wax be placed on his legs and on his chest, waiting for it to be pulled off in swift strokes. Ra’s’s fetish for smoothness ensures he gets waxed often, and it’s hardly the most painful thing that’s been done to him, but it still feels uniquely degrading. He only lets out a noise when they rip it off of his balls. He’s rubbed down with lotion and they press him into his robe, combing out his hair.

The wedding is probably tomorrow. When they leave, he already knows he won’t sleep, so he doesn’t bother. Instead he goes over to the laptop, booting it up and sighing as he stares at the apathetic blue light that looks back. He feels utterly numb. Maybe that will make it hurt less. This one doesn’t have an internet connection at all—there’s no chance of it in this facility. It just has a few video games and programs he’s requested.

Conquering the duchies of other vassals drags out too lowly and too quickly through the night. Tim feels his head ache with the stress and exhaustion but he knows just as much that he won’t sleep a wink. His stomach twists into sailor’s knots, ones he knows won’t untangle until the _blood_ gushes out of his body until he _dies_. He only knows that the night is over when the door opens.

The worst part is the fingers in him, forcing him open and stretching him out for when Ra’s will use him later. It’s too much, even if nothing more than fingers scrapes against his insides. This isn’t considered sex, Ra’s must think, though Tim has no way of knowing if they’re executed right afterwards.

They wash him again, in cold water, leaving him shivering where he stands as they slather him in sweet-smelling oil. This time, the underthings are at least normal. Tim lets them use him like a doll, the same way Ra’s does, only these women are dressing him up while Ra’s uses him like a sex toy. This is better . . . but not by much. He still feels like a mannequin, ready to be put up for people to see how their clothes look.

They sit him down to pay attention to his nails. One of the women clicks her tongue and Tim’s face shoots to her. He’s not even sure which one it is as they all avoid his gaze behind black gauzy fabric. Maybe Ra’s will kill her for it. Tim should care but all he can think about is himself and he won’t even _stay_ dead. That would be why he was biting them down to the quick. It would be relaxing to have his nails painted—the kind of thing Steph might have enjoyed—but it just makes him even more numb to watch forest dark green painted onto his nails. It’s more than that, though, when he sees the ink being brought out. Sitting there, stock still, he watches the intricate henna designs trail up his fingers. Some flowers, but most are swirling designs. It would be boring if they weren’t so mesmerizing as they move up his arms, almost to his shoulders, like some kind of vine that’s burrowed under his skin and made itself a home. There are women working on his feet, too, just as careful and beautiful.

Maybe Ra’s has a foot fetish. The idea gives him a burst of hysterical laughter. They look at him quickly before going back to their work, finishing and letting him dry only as much as necessary as they fan his nail polish.

The dress doesn’t look much like a wedding dress to him, but it’s fancy enough. It’s in two layers, desperately complicated. The bottom layer is silky light-green, going up to his neck. A robe follows, much heavier. It looks to be hand-embroidered in what Tim thinks is probably real gold thread in designs the intricacy of which he will never appreciate. Jewelry is slipped onto his wrists, around his neck, onto his fingers. It’s almost as nice as the ornate gold rings Ra’s wears—the ones that leave cuts on his face when he gets backhanded. Gold jewelry inset with jewels even goes on his feet before they’re slipped into sandals.

His hair, which hangs to a bit below his shoulder blades by now, is braided so tightly it hurts and pressed against the back of his head to make room for a scarf. This is light green too, just as finely embroidered. Most of the makeup base is dedicated to trying to blot out the dark circles under his eyes, meaning it ends up so thick he can barely blink. Especially after the mascara and eyeliner. He starts to feel like a doll even more when more designs are drawn onto his face and gems are stuck to his forehead. It’s gaudy and expensive and all _Ra’s_ and Tim loathes it with his whole being. The dress is earth pushing in on him, stifling him and smothering him. His hair is pulled back as if Ra’s is yanking, ready to slit his throat. It feels like the man’s violence is wrapped around him.

He can’t see well through the veil, squinting as he moves forwards. They adjust it to fit with his headscarf. There’s a small way to see, if he keeps the fabric out of focus. They put on the finish touches, turning the rings, slipping jewelry into piercings he didn’t know he had. At least his nipples aren’t this time, but that doesn’t make the heavy jewelry tug any less on his ears.

They lead him along, one at his side to hold onto his forearm. Tim doesn’t resist. Even if he decided it was a good idea, he doesn’t know if he can. He feels like he’s walking on air, shivering with the fear of what will happen. He almost trips, but someone grabs his shoulders to keep him upright—keeping with professional silence.

The flowers are the first thing he sees through the veil, a heavy carpet set down. There’s a shallow pool in the middle. No food on the tables—no guests except for the ninja on the sidelines, hiding in the shadows. Ra’s stands on the carpet, dressed in a white robe. The green in the cape he wears over it matches Tim’s robes.

Tim is left to make his way to Ra’s himself, looking down at the henna on his feet, partially obscured by the sandals. Ra’s catches his wrists when he finally makes his way over, pulling him in easily.

“Oh, _arossa_ , you didn’t sleep, did you?”

The makeup feels like the only thing that keeps his face still. “Why would I?” he deadpans, and Ra’s clicks his tongue.

“Do you see them? They are here to witness our union.”

“Yes, I see them.”

Ra’s pulls his hand up, kissing the palm of Tim’s hand softly. “They are here for you.” He holds Tim by his wrists, only letting him free for a few seconds. “I swear my love and loyalty to you, Timothy. For the rest of our days.” The only ring he wears on his fingers is a silver band, which he slips onto Tim’s finger.

They all watch them, in darkness, eyes hazy and empty.

Ra’s’s hand pulls up the veil. Tim can see the heat in his eyes clearly now, almost pulsing with what he wants. Ra’s pulls him close by his headscarf, pressing their lips together, biting at Tim’s lower lip so hard it hurts.

Tim braces for the knife in his gut or against his throat but it doesn’t come. Ra’s pulls back, lips shining with saliva, a hand pulling Tim closer by the back of his neck.

“You are hlalai. Mine by right of god.”

“So you’re god now?” Tim whispers.

“When it comes to you?” Ra’s murmurs, “I am.”

Ra’s is on him again. The heavy robes are suddenly little protection against Ra’s hiking them up and drawing him into a deeper and deeper kiss. The scarf falls off of his hair, around his neck. As Ra’s lifts him up all Tim can do is wrap his arms around Ra’s’s neck and try not to fall. Ra’s tastes sweet and Tim is almost lost in the warmth before he feels something blunt and slick against his thighs.

Tim pushes Ra’s away, trying to unwind his thighs from Ra’s’s hips. Ra’s only grunts and holds him tighter, a hand trailing up to grab at Tim’s ass. Nails dig in and pinch his cheeks, Tim hissing into Ra’s’s face.

That blunt heat pushes up against his ass. Tim tries his best to get away but the clothes constrict him just as much as Ra’s’s hands as gravity pulls him down on the shaft. Even after some preparation—for Ra’s’s sake—it burns and stretches so much it leaves him whimpering and gasping. He slowly slips down, feeling it in his body, moving further in until he finally catches against Ra’s’s balls.

Ra’s groans in his ear. “You are wonderful, Beloved.”

Tim can see those faceless ninja watching. He shuts his eyes.

Ra’s moves down, almost slowly, and Tim is rested against the carpet. He gasps, trying to adjust to the movement of Ra’s inside him. The length brushes his prostate and he feels his cock twitch, face burning as he looks up at Ra’s.

Every thrust pushes him forwards. Tim groans, head thrown back against the carpet. It’s easy to get lost in the pleasure—the thing he might as well enjoy because Ra’s will _not stop_ , balls slapping against his ass with every impossibly hard thrust. He feels his cock get harder and he remembers everyone watching.

Tim is sick to his stomach.

Ra’s’s eyes gleams as he digs a hand into Tim’s hair, pushing him further and further back, and Tim—that seems wrong, Tim remembers the layout of the room.

He only has time to struggle for a few seconds before he’s pushed back and the ground goes out from under his head. It’s forced back so hard his head hits the ground beneath it, Ra’s’s hand on his face. He opens his eyes to see blood in front of his face and light above it. They burn with the water.

Tim holds his breath as he struggles but there is little in his lungs. Every thrust hits harder, slamming his head into the concrete so hard it spins. Hands claw at Ra’s’s forearm. Tim almost reaches the surface, opening his mouth to suck in a breath of air before Ra’s’s other hand slams him down.

Tim breathes in bloody water and kicks. It makes Ra’s twist inside him and pain flares in his gut but he keeps going. There’s nothing but water in his lungs as he thrashes in animal desperation. The water rings in his ears. Life slips away and it hurts more than he ever remembers, nothing but a far-away light in front of his eyes as he’s slammed into the floor by Ra’s’s hips against his ass.

Dimly he feels the burst of heat deep inside him as Ra’s spills his seed.

* * *

Tim is breathing in water, thrashing desperately and yelling. He’s somehow thrown Ra’s off, fighting his way to the surface and breathing in real air. It almost makes him sob with relief as he crawls up onto the shore. The sand feels sharp, digging into his hands and knees as he shivers. Heavy clothes hang off of him, dripping water.

He gets to his feet, shaking. He still feels as if he’s stuck under the water, choking, staring around. The person on the shore steps towards him and he lunges for him, sure they’re going to push him back into it. Drown him again.

“None of that.”

Tim screams. Pain circuits through him, sending him spasming to the ground as it takes over his mind. The sand cuts his hands and feet and cheeks as he thrashes. When the pain ends he’s left staring up at the ceiling.

“Are you back with me, Timothy?” Ra’s murmurs.

Tim can feel the pain digging into him. His lungs hurt. All he does is roll over and throw up wave after wave of acid and blood-soaked water.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

“Language.”

Tim ignores him, trying to push himself up. He feels something buried in his ass and reaches around to take it out. It’s a plug, bigger than he expected. He hisses as he pulls it out, ignoring the pain of his aching muscles to throw it on the black sand.

Come leaks out of his ass. More than Ra’s could have done with just one. Tim feels sick.

“You . . . while I was . . . “

“You are beautiful, even when dead,” Ra’s murmurs.

Tim sighs.

He lays back on the sand, the wet robes letting gravity pull him down.

Tim curls in on himself and tries to stifle the pain.


End file.
